


Strawberry Toothpaste

by chanelbodybag



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Awkward Romance, M/M, [blows a kiss] for yumark kingdom, a touch of romeo and juliet-esque, badass kickassery, finding love as the planet falls apart!, semi warm bodies inspired, slow updates...hehe, title shall symbolically reveal its significance later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanelbodybag/pseuds/chanelbodybag
Summary: It’s been eight years since California drowned, Moscow quarantined, and the Eiffel Tower burned 984 feet to the ground—eight years since Earth said, “Welcome to the apocalypse.” It’s the end of the world and life is lovely.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 55
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/1KsI8NEeAna8ZIdojI3FiT?si=SyljyffzTZWTWtmkYLlHxQ)

Mark isn’t quite sure how long he’s been dead. 

Or, half-dead. Mostly dead. Three and four quarters dead? From a clinical standpoint, he is certainly not alive. 

He breathes, he walks, he thinks. There’s clothes on his back and hair on his head, and all of his limbs are  _mostly_ intact. 

That being said, the mop of black fringe matted against his forehead is greasy and sticking out at unkept angles, there’s an odd sort of limp he’s begun to develop, and deep beneath his dirt-caked, cherry-red jumper is a heart with no pulse. 

Mark Lee is living dead—along with a good majority of the planet’s population. Everyone looks as terrible as him.

Actually, scratch that. Mark takes pride in the way his eyes haven’t gone completely bloodshot, how he still has two full sets of teeth, and that his favorite pair of Converse are still semi-sunshine-yellow. Just yesterday he passed by a man with a detached cheekbone, a trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of an exposed sole. There are  _ definitely _ those worse off than him. 

He walks—or, rather, drags his feet in an awkward sort of stumble—past the food court, across a Nordstrom and towards some wannabe-vintage record shop. The local mall has become an undead wonderland, the sweet abode to a herd of grunts and groans in lazy unison. Albeit a little disheveled, it’s not bad. There’s still some functioning electricity thanks to a copious amount of New York solar panels, along with the occasional whir of AC. Not that they need it, though.

He’s developed a sort of routine, unsure of when exactly it began, and it gives Mark a sort of existential dread that the most exciting part of the days he can’t even keep track of is when he trudges into this tacky vinyl store. It smells like cinnamon coated with a heavy layer of vent dust, warm and ancient and just a little gross. There’s a dim glow surrounding the space, a hazy amber that softens the occasional blood spatter. It’s his own private safe haven, a makeshift bedroom lined up with a colorful array of Queen and Bon Iver and Blink182. Lately, he’s taken a liking to Springsteen. 

Mark wonders, absentmindedly flicking through the pages of a discarded tabloid— _was Kim Kardashian still alive?_ — if his life will ever change. It already had, drastically, he was a walking corpse for Christ’s Sake, but his past is nothing he can remember nor regret. Sometimes he wonders how he died. There’s a constellation of scars and not-completely-healed wounds across his abdomen, purple and red and pink swirled together like expired paint, plus the signature bruised knuckles and congealed busted lip. Nothing quite compares to his dark circles, though, ever present and heavy like rockstar eyeliner. Because of that alone, Mark would like to attribute his passing to stress. Cause of death: STAT 101 Final Exam. 

He could be a math whiz. No one said otherwise.

This often leads into a question of how exactly the world ended. The plague? Nukes? A galactic radioactive outbreak sent from the cosmos? Mark has no clue, but thinks the idea of mass alien-induced poisoning would be pretty cool. He’s still waiting for the day he finds out he can glow in the dark. 

Instead, he is left inevitably to deal with his greasy hair and cannibalistic cravings, stuck in an endless, rotten limbo. The apocalypse is like spoiled birthday cake and ants in your pillowcase, your most disappointing dream and a really bad thumb splinter rolled up into one. 

The hunger is certainly the worst part of it all. It’s not like Mark enjoys flesh for breakfast, and he especially does not love tearing into the major arteries of any living creature for fun and confetti. He does still have somewhat of a moral compass intact, but, then again, a guy’s gotta eat. Shoulder meat is a hidden delicacy. 

His best friend isn’t someone Mark has actually, properly communicated with, but they sometimes sit together and share a knowing, glazed over look. Maybe a groan or two. His name is Johnny, as indicated by a roughly faded-out name tag attached to a Starbucks apron, and there’s always a bit of blood in his hair. He’s tall, all wiry limbs, but his posture is a little terrible and he sort of looks like he belongs in the Italian mafia. Mark thinks he’s a great guy. 

Today, they sit, knees haphazardly knocking together in front of a Cinnabon that smells more like rotten banana peels than sugar icing. Mark stares at Johnny, and Johnny stares back, ragged breaths combining past chapped lips. 

_ “ Hun-gry ,”  _

Mark’s voice is shaky and coarse with lack of vitality, but Johnny comprehends past the stutter and nods, a guttural hum signaling agreement. He silently wishes he could still be satiated by nothing but twisted cinnamon sticks.

  
❦

  
  


Meanwhile, somewhere out in whimsy Brooklyn heat and smog, Yuta Nakamoto is running from—what exactly is he running from? 

It seems like he’s always been running, worn out leather kicks scuffed by dust and dirt with a BPM rocket high. He doesn’t stop, no, hardly ever. 

But he has to, or else he’s gonna go into some gruesome form of cardiac arrest, so he heaves himself over a bike rack and catches his breath through greedy gasps and bent knees. 

It’s an attempt made all in vain, however, because Yuta is going to die in the next twenty-five minutes. 

He doesn’t know this, of course. Not yet. 

Life beyond the realm of unfair deaths and sickly infection is glamorous in a chaotic sort of way. He can have whatever he wants, do whatever too, whether it be living off creamsicle sodas for a week straight or hijacking abandoned Cadillacs. He stays away from any form of organized civilization, remains on the prowl with a bubblegum pink skateboard and a katana. The trailer park king, bleached hair and long downcast lashes. 

It’s an awfully humid August, a glimmering wave of heat fogging up his vision and distorting the sky. The streets are unsurprisingly deserted, a treasure cove of abandonment lining every corner. He’s on a mission, a shopping trip of sorts, and the anticipation of it all sends a sugar-and-spice-coated adrenaline rush up his spine. 

He’s a little excited, and the light reflects a sparkle off the whites of his smiling teeth. Devilish.

Yuta maneuvers and sneaks himself around towards one of the side entrances of the mall, tugging a out a bobby pin to fiddle with a padlock. It takes a bit of effort, and he curses under his breath amidst the process, but it does eventually give a little  _ click _ , thus opening up the rabbit’s gates into a new wonderland. 

He’s Alice, curious and reckless and very blonde, off and in with a beeline towards the jewelers. He’s been itching for some Swarovski, a nice, dangling little earring or two—something to compliment the absolute badassery of his bloody denim jeans and citrus chewing gum. It’s a very lovely plan of his, something that’ll swell him with a secret sort of pride for a few days after, but this is the apocalypse and the Queen of Hearts is still beheading fools.

What Yuta doesn’t expect when he rounds the first corner is a mass of zombies, tearing up what looks like to be a Sephora employee from limb to limb, the messy squelch of intestines blending with the sound of his sneakers skidding to a halt. He vaguely wonders what it would be like to be the last person on Earth wearing Viva La Juicy Noir. 

A bony hand grabs at his shoulder from behind, yanking him in for a bite, and Yuta snaps out of his primadonna daydream to aim a kick at the kneecaps and jab at its skull with the sheath of his sword. 

Right. Back to running.

He makes a quick dash past the group, a few stragglers noticing the movement and trailing after his pulse, crossing another corner only to be entirely trapped. Yuta breathes heavy through his nose, hands tight around his katana with a grip that turns his knuckles white. The smell is a telltale kind of rancid.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Another herd, feasting at a struggling band of surviving employees, a few handful of them attempting to fight back. It’s pure chaos and fresh blood, and Yuta has to blink a few times before deciding what to do. Escape seems like the best option, but, shit, he  _ really _ wanted those crystals. Damn it all to Hell.

It’s not easy. He is significantly outnumbered, the unhinged jaws lurch after him, knocking him against walls and usurping his balance. Yuta yells as the sharp edge of glass collides with his skin, a broken window having resulted from the ongoing barrage of living against dead. It was going to scar. He swipes and slashes in a few kills, absolutely ruining his outfit, and scrambles past a random kiosk to duck underneath and collect himself. 

Mark is apart of the crowd. Guts trickle down his chin in a satisfied dribble. He needed lunch. 

Johnny has busied himself with the brains of a bearded fellow, and Mark inwardly curses in envy—that was the best part. He had better save him some for later (or else there would be no joint Cinnabon groaning for at least a day. Or two. Whatever he could manage to keep track of). 

When he turns, Mark swears his heart stops. Then he promptly remembers he has no functioning pulse. He sees a boy huddled up behind a shelf, long sand-bleached hair, the expanse of his arms exposed through a muscle tank plastered with the design of a band he identifies as Guns N’ Roses. He’s shaking a little. His cheek is bleeding. 

Mark stares at him, big brown eyes wide and shiny with sickness, entranced as the chords of Cupid’s harp fill his head. Instead of tearing into his open wound, he wonders if it was possible that he was experiencing some kind of divine intervention—an angel instead of aliens. Yuta looks back, whips his head around more or less terrified, breath caught back in anticipation. There’s a long pause. Death doesn’t come.

Then, he reaches out, offering his hand slow and unsteady. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! What a doozy am I right...eheh ♡ I am definitely creating this disastrous lil monster of a fic as I go, but I can promise it will be full of surprises.. >:] There will be a new song to go along with every chapter, so please enjoy<3 Thank you kindly for reading & any comments are appreciated! Stick around for more ;p
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/5uGhflm9E9r4qDbySPrrj6?si=960eouqCR-yeX8iyFZaAZA)

Their fingers don’t interlace. 

There is no slow jazz or canon of heart-shaped fireworks, none of it, but perhaps the most romantic part of it all is when Yuta reaches back. 

Except, he’s armed. With a weapon. A little Swiss Army Pocket Knife, dirty with grime and dried stains of red. There’s a wrinkled sticker plastered onto the handle, a scratch-n-sniff confetti cupcake lacking saturation. Mark likes stickers, too. Mark thinks that’s cute.

He throws it at him combat-style, the blade snuggly lodging itself into his chest with a satisfied pop. Mark gasps, a gurgled sort of strain, gaze slowly dropping towards where the white of his t-shirt dents. _Oh_. He pulls it out with wavering fingers. How sweet. 

Yuta backs himself up further into the kiosk desk, looking apprehensive and awkward with how his legs are tangled into a messy crisscross, breaths heavy. He wants to yell, to push away, but his fight-or-flight response seems to have been temporarily damaged, thus rendering him and his stupid epinephrine levels useless. 

Half-cautious but mostly just unable to move quicker than snail pace, Mark clumsily lowers himself into a crouching position that mimics Yuta’s, and brings his face in closer to get a better look at his eyes. They’re dark. Not in the same way his are, no, significantly healthier. His are a deep chocolate with a bit of fire, whereas Mark’s are muddy and a little red around the corners. He gawks at him, a piece of forgotten liver hanging at the corner of his mouth, starstruck and bloody all at once. Mark thinks about fairytales while Yuta tries not to vomit. 

‘ _What’s his name? Wow, that hair. It’s like Britney Spears and David Bowie had a love child. Like, wow. He smells good. Type O negative. Or is it vanilla?_ ’

‘ _What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck._ ’ 

The katana. 

Where the hell was his katana? 

Yuta’s attention strays, pupils darting around the surrounding tiles in search of its handle. He must’ve dropped it in the midst of his struggle, or maybe it slid off his shoulder with how haphazardly he skidded into his not-so-hidden hiding spot. His heart clenches unpleasantly. 

He’d named the katana, of course, like any other blade-wielding person in their right mind would do. Excalibur, Andúril, Longclaw—the list went on. Every famous sword had a name. That was unspoken law. It needed to be legendary, something that would command the strength of its predecessors, and, most importantly: be badass as fuck. Hence, after long and considerate contemplation, he decided on Finley. 

It’s a pretty little thing, Honshū Province and sheathed in a maroon leather casing. He’d picked it up on a craving-induced raid for gelatin fruit snacks after spotting a rundown hardware shop across the street. Upon closer investigation, what initially looked like a lonesome hunk of scrap metal on a workshop table turned out to be a mini weapon market, free of charge. After thanking the stars and giving it a little kiss, Yuta returned to the abandoned supermarket for three boxes worth of Welch’s. He thinks that must’ve been once of the best days of his post-apocalyptic life. There’s a little telltale ‘Y’ etched into its holster now. 

He also keeps a packet of gummies stashed into his back pocket. The oranges are the best. 

With that being said, Yuta loves Finley. And, well, Finley loves Yuta (just as much as any inanimate object possibly could). 

When he finally spots Finley, discarded to his left about arms-length away, the tension in Yuta’s shoulders lessen by at least one muscle. He throws a quick glance back towards the corpse in front of him, then to Finley, then back to mister defect zombie. He remains unmoving. 

Yuta counts to three in his head, but just as he begins to lunge off to the side, there’s brittle fingers on his wrist and wetness against his cheek. 

Mark has grabbed ahold of him, grip unintentionally sturdy with the primal instinct to devour. Personally, he thinks it’s romantic. They’re basically holding hands. 

Right? Kind of.

He looks angry. 

Oh no.

This doesn’t discourage Mark, at least not terribly so—‘ _make a good first impression_ ’, he tells himself— and he drags his palm further down the sweep of blondie’s jawline. As much as he wanted to silently continue tracing the outline of Yuta’s lips and ponder the possibilities of his favorite flower, he was still fresh meat and there were other wolves on the prowl. 

In fact, Johnny has begun to look over at him suspiciously from across the isle, raising his head with a good fraction of his face covered in crimson. Mark ignores this by smearing more of his blood across Yuta’s face. It’s more brown than red, conglomerated and rotten-looking—but undeniably undead. Yuta scrunches his nose in disgust but fails to back away. In the back of his head, he vaguely wonders if he might be paralyzed. He breathes heavy through his mouth. Mark drops his smudged-up hand. 

“Not...s-afe,”

Yuta’s eyes enlarge like saucers, expression twisting into an evocative mixture of disbelief and horror. 

Talking. The zombie was talking. He was holding his wrist and not biting into it, he was staring right at him, and he was opening his mouth and forming words and _talking_ —

“Come.”

He had been poisoned. He had been poisoned and he was hallucinating. That had to have been it, it was the only plausible explanation. The orange gummies may have tasted the best, but they were secretly laced with heavy dosages of ketamine. Motherfucker.

While Yuta looks as if he is in the middle of experiencing a transcendence into the astral plane, Mark raises to his feet with knocked knees and a hunched back. He pulls the other up with him, an awkward pairing of blonde and brunette drenched in ragged clothes and fragments of intestine. The rest of the herd has begun to dissipate, various stains of vermillion all over the marble floor, and Mark follows suit by leading Yuta past the escalators and towards Nordstrom. Swarovski remains untouched on the opposite end of the floor.

‘ _His hand is warm._ ’ 

Mark’s lifeless heart sings. Yuta is still in the fifth dimension. 

As they enter the record store, Mark feels his nerves settle. The room brings him an odd sense of comfort, something he can’t quite pinpoint, with its faded spicy scent and posters of Kurt Cobain. The backdoor behind the cashier counter is where his favoritism lies, a tiny break room full of collectibles and colorful keepsakes. Sometimes he’ll discover a little something during a visit with Johnny, or after a midday snack, each soda bottle cap and comic book pages become trophies. Fanta and TinTin are the best. He likes to treasure hunt. 

There’s a fuchsia pink sofa against one of the walls, covered in velour and tasseled throw pillows. It’s very 70s, if the beaded curtain at the entrance is anything to go by. It’s lit up by fake candles and battery-powered crystal lamps, warm and honey-colored. A guitar is propped up against one of the corners, acoustic and smooth, holding more sentimental value than anything tangible. Next to it is a turquoise record-player that’s scuffed around the edges, a pile of vinyls stacked on each side in mini castle towers. Mark let’s go of Yuta’s wrist at the foot of the couch, standing awkwardly stiff and butler-like, hoping that he’ll catch the memo and make himself comfortable. 

That was the gentlemanly thing to do, wasn’t it? Mark looks at him expectantly. Maybe he should’ve cleaned up a little bit, had he known he’d be having guests over. Man, romance was hard.

Yuta doesn’t say anything. He passes out. 

❦

  
  


When he wakes up, it’s to the sound of The Archies. 

There’s cushions beneath him, relatively plush and not horribly stale. A cotton scarf has been unfolded and draped over his chest. It’s plaid and beige, bits of fuzz sticking to his shirt. It’s nice, cozy like a psychedelic daydream coated in artificial sun, until he remembers where he is. 

Yuta shoots straight up, ignoring the blood rush, and looks around wildly. That’s right. The adulterated fruit snacks. 

Zombie boy is sitting on the floor. Crisscross applesauce. 

He’s staring.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

There’s no reply. Yuta doesn’t know why he expects one. He throws his hands up and shakes his head a bit as if to reiterate the question, but nothing comes of that either. A pause. His arms drop back to his sides with an exasperated slap. 

It bothers him that he’s unarmed. He wonders if he can gouge an eye out with a hair-clip. Slowly, he tries again. “Why me?” His voice shakes, he clears his throat. “Why did you save me?”

Mark doesn’t do anything for a beat or two, and then makes a move to get up. Yuta immediately backs up into the wall, hands braced out in potential combat prep. 

‘ _Don’t be awkward._ ’

He lifts a bruised hand out towards him, slipping the sticker switchblade into his grasp. Yuta looks down. It’s still dirty. He doesn’t notice the new addition of a heart decal to match his cupcake, plus a little blue kitten on the opposite side. Mark likes presents. Yuta likes his knives. 

“S-...safe...keep...keep you safe.” The words are a bit of trick to manage, but he perseveres through a clumsily comprehensible gurgle. It’s rough, but soft. A piece of chocolate with cream on the inside. 

Yuta twists the blade between his fingers tentatively. Mark watches. 

He doesn’t throw this time.

“...What are you?”

Instead of trying to speak again—because, wow, did that take a lot of effort—, he stumbles over towards the running record, turns up the volume as they sing about honey and candy girls, and thinks about how he might be in love. Yuta settles back down slowly into the cushions, lost in thought and temporarily appeased, so Mark closes his eyes as he finds the beanbag perpendicular. He thinks about platinum blonde hair and milkshakes with only one straw. 

_‘I’m gonna make your life so sweet, yeah yeah yeah...’_

Mark opens his eyes to find Yuta standing in front of him, expectant. His arms are folded over his chest, and he’s started to tap his foot in what looks to be impatience. The candy turns sour.

“We left Finley out there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...& so the adventure has begun! Thank u for reading<3 Any comments are very appreciated, and if u have inquiries of any sort, do inquire! :3  
> #RESCUEFINLEY
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/1WN4uNclrDuczTO3bCr8s1?si=j8teP7G2RVCKjLZ2-jyUqQ)

Who was Finley? 

Mark’s dead heart sinks. Another person? A special someone? 

‘ _I’m sure Finley is a great person,’_ he tells himself, a dull soothe against his jealousy, ‘ _but I hope Johnny is starving._ ’

“My katana,” Yuta explains, firmer, “it’s still out there.”

Right. Swords didn’t have brains. They could not be eaten alive. 

For that, he silently apologizes. 

“Well? We can’t just leave him behind. I need to...” he looks at Mark from head to toe, wary, lips pursed. “...protect myself.” 

Oh, come _on_. 

Did he really look all that life-threatening? Mark’s head drops so that he can get a look at his beaten up Converse and scraggly jeans. He stares at his palms, cakey with dirt and congealed cuts. It wasn’t _that_ bad. Maybe he just needed a shower.

(Then again, he didn’t know of any functioning facility with running water).

He looks back up at Yuta, bewildered at the thought of him leaving—especially since he had just got here. No words. Yuta’s face twists at that, eyebrows pinched up and pinkish lips spoiling into a frown. He huffs out an exasperated half-sigh half-scoff. Still no response. Yuta stands straighter.

“Just let me go!” 

His words are laced with a bitter sort of urgency, terror and frustration painting his face in shades of rouge and resentment. It scares Mark and makes him speak up. 

“N-n...Not safe,” he starts to shake his head, a clumsy gaggle of motion, eyes wide and unblinking. Yuta looks back incredulously, tone teetering on the edge of mockery. “ _Not safe?_ ” 

He does the scoff-sigh again, turning around in annoyance. “Uh-huh. Not safe.” 

So Yuta goes about a different approach: the route of carnal necessity. Surely, in his predicament, this was something he’d understand. “I’m hungry,” he says. Mark is a blank slate.

Fail.

The cushions pillow under him when he gracelessly plops back onto the pink sofa, clasping his hands together over his lap. He looks like a businessman with a lot of jewelry, a beat-up banker ready to negotiate. The slit on his cheek was beginning to scab over.

“Well, you’re just gonna have to go and get him by yourself then.” Mark’s eyes go impossibly bug-eyed. But, then again, they always kind of looked like that. “‘Cause I need my sword.” 

He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t budge, because he thinks of all the hours ahead of them, all the unadulterated time he has to spend staring at Yuta’s jawline. He thinks about his Elton John records, and a shiny green barrettehe’d picked up from underneath a vending machine that looks like it’ll go well with the blonde in Yuta’s hair. 

He doesn’t budge until Yuta says ‘ _please.’_

It’s terrible. 

It’s beautiful. 

It’s a bittersweet moment, something like the heavens opening up with golden harps and sweet light, but then God comes down with his finger pointing in your face and starts to laugh.

“Please,” Yuta softens, voice gentle and stirred up with a concoction of honey and persuasion. Mark feels like he’s died. Again. 

“I’d _really_ appreciate it. Finley is special to me.”

Mark finds himself up and nodding on autopilot, spindly limbs tangling together with a lovesick sort of inelegance. He manages to grumble out a breathy ‘ _okay,_ ’ that makes Yuta crack a little smile, lopsided and flashing a bit of too-bright-for-the-apocalypse teeth. He shuffles over towards the door, ready to become a novella-esque hero, but pauses at the handle and turns over his shoulder with slow precaution. 

He holds up his hand. His fingers are a little crooked. It’s a silent command, but more so a preventative measure to reassure himself.

Yuta gives a curt jut of his chin. He doesn’t move. 

‘ _Stay._ ’

Mark takes a step further, looks behind a second time, and then is gone. 

❦

As soon as the handle clicks shut, Yuta rushes to his feet. 

He tiptoes around the tiny space, taking care to avoid any stray vinyls or misplaced magazine cut-outs, rushing forward and pressing his ear up against the door. 

Waiting. 

A beat or two pass, and with the reclining thump of clunky footsteps, Yuta decides the coast is, essentially, clear. Glancing around the room one last time, Yuta gathers up all his will and awesomeness, and tries not to slam the door on his way out. 

He pats the bedazzled pocketknife tucked into his jeans. ‘ _For Finley,_ ’ he triumphs. 

Reentering the zombie hotspot is only mildly terrifying. Yuta runs out the store, down past the escalator roundabout, and turns a sharp left near GameStop. He spots the refugee kiosk, and, trailing his attention in a slow zigzag from the spot, he targets a desolate Finley in the middle of the floor. Pride balloons in his chest, a short, warm familiarity that begins to leak out as soon as he spots a man with a missing arm. 

“ _Shit._ ” 

One turns into two, two turns into five, and suddenly an entire Thanksgiving reunion is on his trail. 

Yuta speed-walks with a crouch in the opposite direction, hears a groan, and promptly turns on his heel. He ducks behind a trash can, huddling into a position he was all too familiar with. The sounds gather closer, a gentle barrage of death and impending disaster. Biting his lip, Yuta tastes iron and closes his eyes. He recites some of the most foul curses known to man in his head. 

Mark clasps a cold hand on his shoulder. 

Whipping his head around, a platinum tornado of hair and dangly earrings, Yuta gasps and fights off the heart attack threatening to materialize. He was not about to die on the mall floor. 

Zombie boy looks upset. He looks towards the straggling crowd, shakes his head, and closes in on Yuta with a sincere stare. 

“Don’t...run,” 

Yuta focuses on catching his breath. He pants roughly through his nose, chest heaving with each attempt. Somehow, the slightest bit of comfort twinges his senses, and his nerves begin to settle. It’s a very mild effect, however. 

It’s an interaction that mimics their first, Mark reaching forward with a mucky hand to touch Yuta’s suntanned skin, a slimy mixture of blood and ick smeared like jelly onto his forehead. It reeks, but that’s the point, and when Mark sniffs, tentative, he approves of the way that Yuta recoils. You have to smell like a zombie to trick one. 

“Come. S-a...fe.” 

When Mark gets up, Yuta follows close behind. 

They are both curled over in poor posture, one natural the other fear-induced, moving slow and steady towards the processing mass. Yuta tenses at the proximity, limbs locking, and Mark offers assistance in what he thinks may be the worst advice he’s ever been given.

Next to being blonde in the apocalypse, of course. It’s Hell trying to touch up your roots. He’d never forgive his hairdresser for that. 

Regardless, what Mark tells him doesn’t quite register in severity with Yuta. “Be dead,” he tells him, a low murmur, sticking out his crooked arms in demonstration. Yuta follows suit, naturally, but his rendition of a zombie comes straight from a knockoff production of _World War Z._

He teeters forward on exaggerated steps, making gurgling noises reminiscent of a cat trying to throw up. It’s the stereotypical monster you read about in middle school under the covers, and Mark has to stop and look, vaguely worried that Yuta was experiencing an allergic reaction. “Too...too much.” Yuta tones down on the fake-hurling. 

They stagger through the bodies, Yuta masking the urge to collapse with an undead-hiss every time he bumps contact with one. Mark totters at his side, eyes flicking down towards the glimmer at his feet. It’s a blade, sheer and unbothered, and it registers within him that this must be the lucky bastard that is Finley. 

He doesn’t know why he’s envious of a katana. 

Mark bends further to grasp at its handle, slowing, and then drags it behind his heels as he processes behind Yuta. “I-I told you...not...not safe.” They enter a corridor of bathrooms. Yuta rolls his eyes. 

“I get that,” he sighs, sassy as ever, faux-limp lessening with each step. There’s a pause and a second eye-roll. Mark decides he’s a bit of a diva. “I really _am_ hungry, though.” 

❦

They end up back in the record shop. 

After fondling Finley like a prized Christmas present—it involved numerous kisses and sweet-talking Mark would prefer not to think about for too long—, a high-spirited Yuta had picked up cans of preserved fruit hidden behind a fro-yo stand, and hummed Madonna all the way back to the store with a pep in his step. 

He did thank Mark, however, telling him something along the lines that if he weren’t so dead he’d give him a big hug. 

Instead, he got an awkward air-five. Mark didn’t get the reference. So, really, it was an awkward, _failed_ air-five. 

Whatever. 

Mark was satiated by the way Yuta’s eyes turned into crease-cut diamond gems when he smiled. He also had a pretty singing voice. That was enough for him. 

“Mm,” Yuta had successfully stabbed into one of the containers with the sparkly switchblade, digging into the sticky syrup and chewy pears with an antique spoon. “Oh my _g_ _od_.” 

Mark had found it at some homey lifestyle shop, and he liked the little cerulean swirls carved into its metal. He watches the blonde eat, mesmerized, taking a liking to the way he picks out the cherries and avoids apple. 

When Yuta had first told him he needed to eat something, Mark was faced with a catastrophically cognitive dilemma. Hungry. When hungry, eat food. Mark knew that much. He looked at Yuta blankly.

Eat. He ate severed limbs and vital organs and hot blood. By textbook definition, Yuta was food. Yuta said he wanted to eat. Food eat food? 

Did he want an arm or a leg? He ate the living, Yuta was alive. Did he want to eat _himself?_

This fiasco was brought to a closing when Yuta had grown impatient, as well as a bit uncomfortable under the excessive staring, thus huffing and trudging over to the nearest human-food-offering station. 

Mark knows better now. He was learning a lot. 

Current Yuta looks up at Mark, who has remained hovering over him after offering the cutlery, and smiles close-lipped with a mouth full of saccharinely sweet goodness. 

‘ _Oh no. Stop staring. You’re acting weird again._ ’

Yuta goes back to his food, happy, and Mark forcibly turns his attention elsewhere. He finds the mini-fridge tucked into one corner of the room, rummages through its lack of supply and pulls out a Corona. When he holds it out to Yuta, lips shiny with artificially flavored gloss, his face gets a little brighter. He beams out a ‘thank you’, all sunshine, and cracks the cap off with the blunt edge of his knife. He gives Mark the bottle cap. 

“Man,” he sighs, this time content and warm with pleasure. “I can’t even _remember_ the last time I had beer.” Yuta takes a few more deep swigs, bites into a maraschino and inwardly declares this as one of the finest meals he’s ever had in his lifetime. Things weren’t so bad in the apocalypse, that he was sure of. He never even really hated it in the first place. It was all about liberty and free beer and zombie boys with black hair that liked to watch you smile. 

“You’re not so bad are you, zombie boy?” Mark feels the nonexistent heat flood his face, an invisible blush on his too-pale cheeks. It’s a lighthearted moment, soft under the glow of the 70s fluorescents, and he can smell the tang of Yuta’s breath. It’s like a date, definitely a date, but he still needs to properly introduce himself for it to be official. That was the most important part. How could he forget? 

“M-...my...name,” he offers, red-rimmed eyes hopeful. Yuta perks up at that, swallowing some mango. “You have a name? What is it?” He sounds mildly incredulous. Mark doesn’t take offense. 

So he tries to tell him. A single-syllable  couldn’t be that much of a hassle. “M...M...” Yuta quirks a brow. “Ar-...M...” He shakes his head. It sounds like incessant vowel-formation. “‘M’? It starts with an ‘M’?” Mark nods at that, breath stuttering. Oh wow. It was really happening. 

“Matthew?” No. “Manny?” No. “Mario?” God, no. 

‘ _This date is not going well. I wanna die all over again._ ’

“Marcus?” Mark jolts a little at that, egging Yuta on with a particularly sharp breath and blown-out eyes. Yuta mirrors this with a nod of his own, semi-understanding. “Oh. Um. Marcus? Not Marcus. Mark?”

Mark smiles.

“Mark!”

The smile grows, crooked and small but full of rainbows and a hefty magnitude of joy. It’s nice. Honeymoons and sunset romance kind of nice. _Really_ nice, so that it’s effectively more ruined when Yuta says what he says next: 

“I wanna get out of here, Mark.” 

So close. So, _so_ close. The rainbows desaturate. 

It’s more of a struggle to speak this time. Mark repeats his self-developed mantra. It’s more rushed than usual. “Safe. N-not, not safe.” 

Yuta deflates, sympathetic, unconsciously treating this as a humane conversation instead of some bizarre fever-dream occurrence. “I get that. You saved me, and I’m very thankful.”

But.

“But, I can’t stay here. It smells weird and my eyes are kind of itchy.” Stupid dust. “You walked me into here, and I know you can walk me out.” 

‘ _No, no, no. He can’t leave. He just got here. Tell him he has to wait. Tell him they’ll notice. Tell him he’ll get eaten alive. Actually, maybe not that last part._ ’ 

Mark tries again, voice clearer. “Have t-to wait,” he half-chokes on an unsteady breath, but manages, “th-...they’ll notice.” 

‘ _Huh. Not bad._ ’

By the way his expression falls, not terribly crushed but a little disappointed, Mark knows he’s won blondie over. Yuta gives in. “How long?” 

“Few...few days.”

That would be great. It sounded great. A mini-episode of _The Bachelor_. 

“Y-you...you’ll be...okay.” 

The smile returns, the one Mark has grown increasingly fond over, flowery and gentle like silk. He looks straight out of a love poem. Mark likes to read those sometimes. 

He tilts his head, rather astonished. No more astral-projection worthy horror. “Are there others, like you?” Mark shrugs. “I mean, I’ve never seen a corpse talk. Like, actually talk.” Mark shrugs again. 

It’s then that Yuta officially caves, shoulders loose and body lax against the hot-pink velour, full of sticky fruit and the buzz of 4.5% alcohol. And a little bit of enjoyment, too. “Okay. A few days, huh?”

‘ _Yes. Exactly._ ’

“Well, what am I supposed to do for a few days around here, Mark?”

The possibilities were endless: stare at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stickers in the movie theater, steal expensive signed books from Barnes and Noble, have an all-night vinyl listening party. He could even introduce him to Johnny at their next Cinnabon meet. Mark can’t help but fantasize, zoning out into daydream land as Yuta returns to nursing his drink. He can see it now, the roses, the soap opera swooning, and the prompt moment they fall head-over-heels. He’ll make sure to catch Yuta, too. It’s a lovely plan, nothing short of Shakespearean. They bask in the presence of one another, odd yet hospitable, a comfortable silence. 

Then, they hear a scream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again & thank u for reading! Operation Rescue Finley was a success♡ Any comments + questions are always appreciated, and I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Who do u think the mystery screamer is? ;]
> 
> (PS: I’ve uploaded some visuals/concept art/bonus-reference-goodies [here](https://twitter.com/diorpocketknife/status/1220144619427639296?s=21)! Feel free to check it out, it will be updated as the story progresses<3.) 
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/0AZb6ryK8LsFcvY1jWHO61?si=Qae0-ilgRkeRn6I54BXsNg)

Someone was definitely struggling. It wasn’t a _Nightmare on Elm Street_ scream, no blood-curdling Hollywood terror, but rather an angry shriek and a few shouted expletives that undoubtedly indicated trouble. 

Mark prays Yuta doesn’t hear. 

Yuta, however, has perfectly functioning ears and jolts upright at the noise. It was pretty hard to ignore. 

He can’t deny he’s a little bit curious, too. He’s always been like that, hence the piles of collectibles and random trips to Bath and Body Works to see if there was really glitter in their shimmer mists.

There was, actually. If you squinted up close, you could really see something like the dust of diamonds or crushed up galaxies. He broke a bottle of Strawberry Blossom after squeezing too hard and sparkled like a fairytale vampire. He smelled like blood and artificial sugar for days. 

It was easily one of the most embarrassing experiences of his post-mortem life. 

“What the hell was that?”

The exasperation in Yuta’s tone snaps him out of his chagrin-inducing reverie, and he looks over to meet his eyes begrudgingly. 

A scream. It’s lunch rush. Wasn’t it obvious? 

Zombie logic doesn’t quite reach Yuta as well as Mark would have preferred, and he immediately begins to gather up his things as well as his wits. Mark watches in disheartened silence as the cutlery clinks and Yuta cleans, Finley shining bright and beautiful across the arch of his shoulder. 

It’s a messy attempt at composure, but Yuta’s energy is stoic and ever-present—as if the concept of relaxation was suddenly foreign to him—, and his bleached hair flutters behind him at unkept angles as he heads for the door. Mark drags his ankles across the carpet and trudges obediently close behind. 

He attempts a sigh, but it comes out sounding like more of a gurgled, voice-cracking groan. Yuta looks mildly disgusted. 

“Someone’s out there,” Yuta offers the obvious, already reaching for the handle. It’s potential adventure and living-human company. “You coming with?” Mark stares back in silent affirmation. 

Blondie looks content with that, swinging open the door and jogging towards the chaos landmine that was the rest of the mall. 

The date-planning would have to wait. 

“It’s our first date.” Yuta looks over his shoulder and smiles. Playful. Shiny.

Oh. Never mind then. 

❦

Personally, Mark would have preferred a philosophical chat at Starbucks, or maybe a sit-down near the fountains to watch the sunset. But this was fine. It was the apocalypse, after all. 

Rescue missions seemed vaguely Romeo and Juliet anyways, so that was a plus. 

His Capulet has congealed blood on his lip and dirty mud-tracking boots, and yet he’s the most beautiful human Mark has ever laid his bloodshot eyes on. From what he can remember about ideal beauty standards, Yuta seemed the type that was most likely to become Tyra Banks’ adopted child and model kohl eyeliner the rest of his life. Not that he was a byproduct of commercialism, or anything. Just really hot. 

Mark stares at Yuta during the entire venture across the aisles, following the scent of dried vanilla caked against his wrists while Yuta tracks the sounds of muffled shouts. 

They stop at a custodial closet just beyond the restrooms. It’s locked from the inside, and very obviously surrounded by a group of noise-attracted, fresh-blood-smelling zombies. The doorframe thumps at the occasional pounding of fists. 

Mark and Yuta have a stakeout just around the corner. Finley is in clutch. 

“Mark, there’s too many. You have to lure them away,” Yuta whispers, urgent and scheming, eyes locked dead onto their target. Mark, on the other hand, is finding it hard to form coherent thought due to their current proximity. They’re knelt down and huddled together, a terrible predicament for his undead heart, and he watches the way Yuta’s lips form syllables. He said his _name_.

“ _Mark!”_

Mark blinks. Blinks again. Yuta looks at him, bewildered. He has resorted to whisper-shouting and waving his hands in front of his face. 

“Are you listening? You distract, I rescue. Capeesh?”

‘ _What in the world was a “capeesh”?_ ’

Their damsel in distress continues to shriek, the panic becoming more insistent. Yuta snaps his fingers in reminder.

“Ca...Cap...r-rese.” 

Then Yuta laughs, he _giggles_ , amused and caught off guard and Mark thinks this moment comes close to having brains for breakfast. Borderline heaven.

He nods afterwards, taking a deep breath as if to settle himself, and clutches Finley close against the fabric of his muscle tank. “We split on the count of three.” Mark waits patiently, only a little apprehensive.

“One...” Yuta peeks around the corner, raising up on his calves. He looks like he’s on the prowl.

“Two...!” 

He doesn’t finish. Yuta springs up before the last digit, taking off in a cat-like sprint. This was to be expected. 

‘ _Three._ ’

While Yuta scurries down towards the opposite end of the hall, poised to attack, Mark stretches up on his gangly limbs and presents himself to the rest of the crowd. He takes a few staggered steps forward, unsure of exactly how to best gain everyone’s attention until he sees Johnny. 

‘ _Seriously, dude? You’re still hungry?_ ’

Mark makes an exasperated sort of sound, gaining a few turned heads, and he locks eyes with Johnny who seems to lighten a bit at his presence. His eyebrow cocks slow and crooked, the corner of his lip twitching upward as if to say: “What’s up, man?” 

The two of them meet halfway and straggle off a small distance away from the rattling closet, Johnny offering up his purpled fist for Mark to bump in a clumsy jostle. His wrist is severely dislocated, but they make it work. 

“Need to...to m-move...away,” Mark starts, surprisingly steady. It’s the most the two of them have interacted past a few shared glances and groans, but the progress doesn’t register as anything monumental. Johnny reciprocates the way his mouth moves, and the words string themselves together like gory, raspy magic. “Fresh me-at.” 

Mark shakes his head at that, a robotic twist lacking conviction, but Johnny understands the mechanics of undead urgency. The damsel whines and the others continue to aimlessly scratch against the doorframe. “W-why?”

This was the part Mark dreaded. He hadn’t nearly rehearsed it enough! How was he supposed to explain to Johnny that he had fallen madly in love in the span of five nanoseconds and was almost positive he had met his potential near-future husband? What if he didn’t like him? What if he didn’t want to be apart of the wedding? What if there was _no wedding_? 

Yuta does the honors of introducing himself by impatiently flinging an empty soda can their way. It dully bounces off Mark’s ankle, and the two of them shuffle a slow turn towards the direction it came from. He throws his hands up, very what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-esque, and juts out his chin. Graceful as ever. 

Mark must have begun to stare yearningly for a moment too long because Johnny notices, makes a noise vaguely reminiscent of laughter,and knocks their knobby shoulders together in playful mockery. “S-since when...you...in-to blondes...?”

The teasing makes it infinitely worse for Mark. His longing swells up in his chest and fills the cavity of his throat, simultaneously robbing him of speech and dignity. It was the sweet torture of being in love. 

But Johnny does not reconcile with the hardships of having a crush, especially the end of the world kind, and continues.“Way...ab-...ove your orbit,” he taunts, monotone, but Mark can feel the telltale lilt of his words, “h-he’s like...strat-o...stratosphere.” 

‘ _Curse him and his impressively large and functioning vocabulary._ ’

“Gr-eat ass, th...though.” 

Mark’s head spins. Figuratively, of course, although it probably could with how janky his joints were. 

How dare he! Yuta was officially unofficially off limits. Yes, they were not explicitly an item, but that was _his_ human. This was a blatant violation of Bro Code. Mark would have none of it—for the sake of preserving Yuta’s honor and the decency of true romance.

“H-hey,” Mark frowns. Sort of. It looks more pained than reprimanding. Like bad constipation. “This...is...l-love. Love...mo-more impor-tant...th-than...ass.” 

Yes, it was. That was rather chivalrous of him, if he did say so himself. It was just as if Yuta were a very blonde princess and he his dutiful knight. 

“N...Nothing...more...important th-than...ass.” 

And so the scene was effectively ruined.

‘ _You’re not seeing the point! I’m in love!_ ’ 

Mark looks wearily over to Yuta again. He’s taken a break from that militia ready-to-fight stance and has bent over to tie his shoelaces. 

‘ _...He does have a nice ass though._ ’ 

Epiphany aside, Mark can’t quite muster up the ability to scream his defenses, his half-rotted vocal chords would undoubtedly collapse, so instead he voices his frustration through clumsy consonants. “Pr-promise to...keep...sa-fe. Let...go.” 

Johnny seems as if he’s about to appease, to relinquish his frat-boy sense of humor and lead the herd the other way around, and Mark is just about ready to give himself a victory paton the back. He feels well-deserving of some praise, and plans to get some—preferably in the form of confessionals and hand-holding. That is, until Yuta jabs Finley into the nook of Johnny’s wrist.

In the short span of time between Yuta’s shoe-tying and Johnny’s premature truce, the blonde had grown impatient with the lack of action and unsheathed his sword in a fit of unease. He had planned for a very rad, Mortal Kombat display of weaponry—to attack head-on and slice the appendage clean-off. 

However, the blade is now lodged into what feels like bone, and the panic skyrockets. 

Again, Mark wants to scream. There were so many things wrong with what Yuta had just done on so many levels: beginning with the fact that this was his best friend going on prospective best man he had just attacked, and now they were conjoined together when it was supposed to be the other way around. Yuta curses out an endless string of expletives, while Johnny groans in confusion, the two of them pushing and pulling in opposite directions to try and separate. The commotion of it all attracts the rest of the herd, their attention shifting from the door onto a feisty blonde head of hair. Mark can only watch in horror. 

This was bad. This was really, really bad. 

“Get out of there! Go! Get out!” Yuta shouts towards the ominous damsel as they strain, somehow managing to remember what they originally came here for, and Mark applauds him for that. At that point, he honestly couldn’t remember his name. The doorknob jiggles frantically and there’s a loud thump or two before the entire frame is completely kicked down and bust open. 

It is not a damsel they have rescued, but rather the devil himself.

“If any of you musky motherfuckers move an inch closer the Burning Man festival is gonna come to town early.” 

A boy steps out from the cramped closet, wild sunburnt hair with fiery eyes to match. There’s warpaint on his cheeks and a streak of hot pink through his bangs, clothes bright and wild and a little dangerous. It looks like Lisa Frank came out with a collection for World War 3, and his cherry-chapstick lips are pursed into a snarl. He flicks a shiny lavender lighter and suddenly he’s armed with a full-functioning Molotov, a row of candy bracelets stacked on one wrist. 

Yuta’s face falls.

“ _Donghyuck?!_ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I missed u guysT_T My apologies for a rather late update...but I hope these events can make up for it<3 Ch. 5 is already in the works! ^_^
> 
> &of course...a warm welcome to our newest member of the apocalypse! Did u guys see it coming?:3 Any comments + questions are encouraged♡♡
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/66ZcOcouenzZEnzTJvoFmH?si=-EoDIAzdQDG7W8NH6hUmOA)

“Fuck!”

It’s as if time has temporarily frozen in place, all eyes wide and still from the heat of the flames that rage. It’s hot, tense, and just as terrifying as the peak of a rollercoaster made from wooden planks. Or was it just the look on Donghyuck’s face? 

Regardless, Yuta is having none of it, and shatters the confusion iceberg with prolonged cursing. Mark wonders why he looks so phenomenally upset, as if someone had ate the last piece of cerebellum, and it makes him want to reach out and pet his hair. He stares at him. Distraught humans were so stress-inducing. 

“It’s _Donghyuck?!_ ” Yuta looks around wildly as if expecting a divine answer, katana still very immobile and zombies very close by, a developing frown pulling against his features. He’s shocked. Flabbergasted. Speechless in the worst kind of way. 

_ ‘Donghyuck might be nineteen, but he is a total fucki—’ _

He stops himself there. Inhales deep and heavy. A vein or two may have popped in the process. 

_ ‘I was going to say something very powerful but I don’t want to use bad words to describe children.’ _

Donghyuck is just as flagrant and hellbent as he’d remembered him to be, glowering eyes and messy hair and shitty Nike’s with an overall aura that was vaguely demonic. Hadn’t grown much either—probably a side effect of being Satan’s favorite. He used to melt packets of Crayola in pots, dump the remnants into glass bowls and watch them permanently stain. He’d pulverize Yuta’s chemistry homework in the blender, serve it in a mug and offer up “homemade-brain-power”, the Mendeleev Eatery’s specialty. Sometimes he liked to track dirt onto the white carpet and blame it on a rabid fox under their porch. Other times he’d fight said rabid fox with lemonade-filled water guns. 

Yuta had to take him to urgent care for an on-sight rabies shot. 

In short, Donghyuck was definitely dropped on the head as a young child, and Yuta was done serving the underworld for twenty bucks an hour. 

Yuta whips his head around to face Mark—looking inhumanly paler than usual—, then the advancing undead stragglers, and then Johnny. Their arms continue to yank against each other in a discombobulated game of tug-of-war. Poor Finley. He had gone through a lot today. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he begins through a rush of air, clearly anxious and pulling a little harder on Finley’s handle. Johnny gurgle-winces. “Let’s just forget about this. You guys can keep him!” 

Donghyuck glowers at that, face scrunched up as he takes a few steps closer. The zombies nearby stumble backwards at the ripple of fire coming from his left hand. “You can’t just leave me here, you sphincter stain! What about all that hero shit?”

No. No more damsel in distress—that was established as soon as said fair maiden came out cursing like a sailer on LSD. 

“That was before I knew it was _you!_ ” Yuta retorts, a quick snap with just as much sass. 

“What’s wrong with _me?_ ” 

Redhead on fire pouts a little. Yuta feels nauseous. 

He eyes every zombie in the vicinity, weary and just a little manic. Everything is still moving relatively slow. Even the on-the-side zombies seem to gawk at the spectacle, jaws lax and groaning subdued. Mark’s confusion balloons, and he’s almost a little heartbroken that their first-date-turned-rescue-mission was being thrown away just like that. Was it really considered a mission fail just because some bedazzled pyromaniac crashed the party? 

Yuta catches the puppy-dog glances that Mark projects his way—they’re like satellite waves—, and deflates a bit. He looks more frustrated than sympathetic, however, as if he found it burdensome to even explain the reasoning behind his capriciousness. His life was kind of at stake, too, but the majority of his consciousness had went into shock and complaining about the kid with pink in his hair seemed perfectly relevant. 

“Donghyuck,” he starts slow, tentative and sharp as if on the brink of a dynamite catastrophe, “I babysat you, like, three times, and each time you either tried to light me or my stuff on _fire—”_

Before Yuta can finish his repressed rant of a lifetime, a corpse grabs at his shoulder and pulls with its teeth snapping. On instinct he jolts aside, Finley effectively dislodging from the junction of Johnny’s wrist. There’s a grotesque crunching noise that goes along with it, like crumpled skin and weak bones, and the residue left on the blade is the kind of blood that’s more brown than red. Yuta’s stomach knots, and the urge to hurl all over his Docs is repressed by an insistent flight or fight response. 

A second zombie follows the first, then a third, and suddenly all the attention is back on the only two with beating pulses. 

Mark watches Johnny goggle at his new wound, the cut fresh and jagged. It’s pretty gross, and some chipped away bone is peeking out from the torn skin. Knowing Johnny, however, he probably thought something so Frankenstein was awesome. They couldn’t quite register pain in their current state anyways. Nociceptors died along with the heartbeat. 

It isn’t until Yuta shouts that Mark snaps out of his anatomical thoughts, but when he looks around to follow the sound, he can only see specks of blonde over a crowd of rotten skulls. It’s as if an entire ocean of them had suddenly flash-mobbed the hall, and now Mark was beginning to freak out. He trips over his laces as he trudges forward, a sloppily quick pace, and he holds his arms out in a makeshift barricade to try and push through the mass. The rescuer had become the in-need-of-rescuing—yet again—, and Mark thinks he’ll need to give him a proper scolding back in the record shop. No more nice guy. He needed to lay down the law. 

_‘But in a gentle way,’_ he tells himself, _‘I don’t wanna make him feel bad.’_ There’d be more canned fruit involved. 

Everything would resolve nicely and they could stay holed up with the dusty records and fuzzy couch for the rest of the night. Or even the next few days. Perhaps forever. 

They’re too far out from each other, though, and by the time Mark reaches a clearance at the end of the aisle Yuta had already vanished. 

❦

“You’d really leave me back there?” 

After Yuta had thrashed and ducked his way out of that morbid mess, he had successfully sprinted his way out of trouble and into an isolated strip of stores. He’s just catching his breath, slinging Finley securely over his shoulder, when the most annoying voice on planet Earth rings through his ears like a middle-school fire alarm. 

He looks up to the ceiling, walks a little bit faster, and ushers a silent prayer towards whomever was listening for a bottomless pit to open up beneath their feet. He also pretends not to notice. 

Donghyuck throws a empty boba cup at him. Yuta shrieks.

“All by myself, _defenseless?_ ” He’s caught up to Yuta’s side now, a sour expression on his face, reiterating himself as if Yuta had committed some abominable hybrid of treason and homicide mixed into one. It’s offensive, really. 

So Yuta scoffs, rolls his eyes hard enough for them to get permanently stuck at the back of his head, and tries to regain some distance between the two of them. “Oh, please. Even the corpses are scared of you.” 

Mini-Satan takes it as a compliment. “Hm.” His chest puffs out a little. “Fucking mutants should be. They melt better than Barbie dolls.”

Ah, yes. The horrible tradition of torching plastic was something Yuta had witnessed in the Lee’s family room all too many times before. He really hadn’t changed—and that’s all it takes for Yuta to round a corner and wave.

“Bye-bye, Donghyuck.” 

But Donghyuck is stubborn, perhaps the literal embodiment of why the word was invented, and he jogs right up to his side again. 

“I saw you knock them in the knees with that thing,” he points at Finley and Yuta tries not to cringe at the insensitive pronoun referral, “that was smart. You’re not smart.” Donghyuck was incapable of complimenting other people. 

Instead of an elaboration on how Yuta’s method of combat saved time and potential for error, he hits him with the backhand and scrunches up his eyebrows. There’s a slit in one of them. 

“The world is backwards now, Donghyuck. In case you haven’t noticed.” 

He was happy to dish out a taste of the gremlin’s own medicine, spicy and sour and always crude, especially now that he wasn’t getting a paycheck for politeness anymore. They continue walking together in a mismatched pace with little frowns on their faces. 

Then it hits him: he could leave. 

There were no zombies trailing after him, no black-haired, bug-eyed casanova attached to his hip. With nothing stopping him, he was at liberty to do as he pleased. Sure, there was Donghyuck, but that was a problem that could be easily remedied with a good insult battle and some sprinting. 

It’s not the nicest thought, but Yuta is getting annoyed with all the surprise visits this shitty mall had to offer, and his agitation only heightens when he thinks back to the lost opportunity of a Swarovski crystal or two. He just wanted some damn bangles, maybe a ring if the selection was especially elegant, but here he was—completely empty-handed. Maybe it was best to just give up and get out, return to the runaway lifestyle he had outside. 

These plans grow and grow and begin to materialize like wildflowers in Yuta’s head, a sudden pep in his step as they skip down the immobile escalators and right into a partition of metal and chains. It’s all very lovely until they find that they’re completely gated in. 

❦

Yuta sits on the edge of the plaza’s biggest fountain and counts the heaps of pennies along the bottom. 

Upon realizing that there was no easy way out of the mall, the two of them had turned on their heels and rerouted. Turns out, Donghyuck was just as frustrated as Yuta, as he had took a quick detour to try and find some leftover fro-yo toppings—he was craving the crushed up Heath bars—only to end up back-to-back with several bottles of Clorox for a half hour. He did manage to snag two bottles of Fanta, however. 

He relayed all this information to a very PO’ed Yuta, who began to silently pace the space around them with a locked jaw. He must have begun to angrily grumble under his breath, because Donghyuck took notice of his inattention with great offense, gasping harshly and folding his accessorized arms over his chest. It only took a quick stare-down for him to realize what it was Yuta wanted. 

So, being the clingy, ingenious little devil he was, he proposed Yuta an offer. If he could figure out a way to get them out of the mall, then Yuta would agree to adopt him as his not-so-faithful sidekick. Group survival was always better than riding solo, and he would hate to die with no one to give him a proper burial. He wanted there to be illegal fireworks and a long medley of ABBA’s greatest hits. 

(Donghyuck was quite possibly the biggest ABBA fan known to mankind.)

They already knew each other, so none of the awkward first-time introductions were required. Not only that, but Donghyuck’s brains paired with Yuta’s combat skills made for one dynamite duo. What was there not to like? They were destined to kick the apocalypse in the balls. 

Donghyuck had asked why not, but Yuta could list a million reasons against it. 

That being said, he did not get the chance to voice any, as Donghyuck has already scampered off to go and fiddle with the gate’s machinery. It had been around fifteen minutes since then, and about five minutes later Donghyuck comes back from around the corner. His sauntering is much slower. 

“We can’t open the gate. It’s rigged with an IED.” Yuta doesn’t bother asking what in the hell that was. The look on Donghyuck’s face was enough to know it was not good. “This is some _Hunger Games_ level shit...” 

Yuta scoffs at that, and continues to work on cleaning off the grime from Finley’s blade with a Kleenex. He doesn’t speak and scrubs a little too hard. 

Donghyuck doesn’t notice any of this, and continues on whimsically, staring off at the menagerie that surrounded them. Wanderlust was chemically scripted into his DNA. “You’ve gotta admit, though. This place is kind of awesome. There’s food...beds...and a ton of hair straighteners.” There’s a hair cuttery right across from them.

He nods, satisfied. Almost paradise. 

“Who were you talking to, by the way?” Donghyuck turns after a few moments of appreciative silence, and sits himself easily next to Yuta. “I heard voices. You know, the conversational kind.” 

Yuta pales at that. Maybe Mark was more human than he seemed. 

He clears his throat, continuing to swipe at a perfectly clean Finley. He pokes his tongue out for extra faux-determined effect. “Really? That’s strange. It was just me.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not!” 

Donghyuck sits up straighter, hands on his knees, and leans in. There’s a wild sort of spark in his eye, the kind that was predatory and full of curiosity. He wasn’t going to let this go. “Dude. You’re totally lying. You look like Pinocchio on steroids.”

So much for subtlety. 

Yuta considers telling Donghyuck the truth, just because he was giving him such an uncomfortably burning look, but he hesitates due to the overall incredibility of it all. Even someone as feral as Donghyuck would call bullshit. 

“...You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Donghyuck hollers at that, throwing his hands up and nearly falling backwards into the fountain at the sudden position change. Yuta yanks on his sleeve to steady his balance. He thinks it’s hilarious.

And, through a fit of giggles, he yells: “Bullshit!” 

He continues to do so too, just to pester Yuta. He pokes fingers at him and begins to yell and sing the word in various octaves, bouncing around like a maniac. Yuta surrenders for the sake of his sanity. 

“Okay, okay! I’ll tell you! Shut up!” He slaps a hand over Donghyuck’s running mouth. Donghyuck immediately licks it. Absolutely animalistic. “ _Ew._ Stop. I’ll kill you.” Devil boy flashes him a smile that challenges the validity of that statement. It’s despairingly annoying.

“Just don’t judge, okay? Seriously.”

A hum of agreement.

“A zombie. I was talking to a zombie. The one with the red jumper and Angelina Jolie cheekbones. His name’s Mark, he likes The Smiths, and he saved my life.”

Donghyuck is uncharacteristically quiet.

“And he can talk.” 

The beat of silence extends, and extends, and extends until Yuta gets so fidgety and ashamed that he stands up and buries his face in his hands. “I told you not to judge,” he whines, voice muffled against his palms, “I don’t understand it either! It’s crazy, I know. Honestly, I think I might be a developing schizo—”

“Hey!” Donghyuck yanks Yuta back by the shoulder, looking surprisingly serious. Almost as if he _wasn’t_ going to launch into an insult hurricane. “What’s up your butt? This is _amazing_.” 

Wait, _what?_

Yuta stares at him, dumbfounded. 

“Which part?”

Donghyuck is quick to smack him on the head. “You dim bulb!” It hurt only a little bit. Honestly, Yuta was more concerned about messing up his hair. “You’re missing the point. He’s a corpse who can say more than ritualistic groaning. He _survived!_ ” 

Huh. That was something that hadn’t occurred to him. He’d never even consider it. Mark’s eye-bags were too heavy for human qualification.

So he shakes his head, not comprehending. “No.” 

Donghyuck is having none of it. He had already launched himself into an otherworldly tangent, and there was no nearby landing in sight. Once the mad scientist had a hunch, he was going to take it and run. 

“What do you mean, “no”? This is a big fucking deal here! This Mark guy, he’s not like the other deadbeats. He _talks._ ” 

“Well, yeah...”

“If he says words, then he’s still kind of a person, right? Maybe there are others like him. Maybe our parents aren’t completely gone. We have to stay here and study him—”

It’s too much. Yuta has to grab Donghyuck’s shoulders to stop him, grip loose around the pin-clad denim jacket he wears. There’s some bloodstains mixed in with the wild array of colors. 

“There is no “we,” Donghyuck. I get that you miss your mom, but this?” He sighs. “One defect zombie is not gonna bring your parents back.” 

Donghyuck’s big eyes gloss over, a just-barely shine. It’s crystalline and a little painful. Yuta feels a pang of regret as he watches the way his face twists up all slow and hopeless. 

His breath is shaky when he decides to speak again. 

“I saw one with the keys to the gate. Lanyard around its neck.” The confession is quiet, and Yuta lets his hands fall back to his sides with a sheepish mix of graciousness and remorse. 

“Show me.”

  
❦

Donghyuck leads him around in a short zigzag and points behind a trash can. There, propped up against the garbage with half a leg trapped under a tipped over vending machine, is their cadaver culprit. 

It’s a tentative maneuver, Yuta reaching out every few seconds before retracting his arm to avoid the unhinged jaw of a former employee. Donghyuck was right, there were the keys, dangled around a flimsy yellow lanyard. This process repeats itself around five more times before Donghyuck gets sick of the delay, and takes a pair of craft scissors out from his back pocket to snip and snatch out the treasure. It’s a quick little trick, and Yuta is only a little jealous he wasn’t able to do the honors. He drops the keys into Yuta’s open palms like a stocking stuffer, and he starts to head for the gates rapid-fire. They leave unscathed, successful, and Yuta is already pressing open the partition to duck under its chains. 

Piece of spoiled, gut-filled cake. 

“I’ll see you around.” 

Donghyuck’s face goes bright chagrin, a shrill but of terror making his voice crack. Stupid late bloomer puberty. 

“Yuta? What happened to our promise?” Those were sacred to him. 

The blonde whips his head around, incredulous and maybe a tiny bit infuriated. His patience had grown impossibly thin in the span of a couple hours. “You tried to hide the way out from me!” 

Donghyuck bites the inside of his cheek and thinks. That was true, but he had figured his intentions were righteous enough to make up for it. 

Still, he didn’t have to give up. He could try harder. 

“Come on. You’re no hunter, you’re running away! We could have a tribe here, we could learn so much. Why do you think you have to do this survival shit all alone?” 

As Yuta opens his mouth to repeat a telltale “bye-bye, Donghyuck”, his grip on the backdoor exit to the mall is floundered by the force of it opening from the outside, and he is promptly toppled over with football player strength. It smells of dirt and rot. 

_ ‘Shit.’ _

“Crapsicles! I left my molotovs in my bag.” Donghyuck stares at a preoccupied Yuta, who is currently holding back a very starved zombie only a few inches back from his face. They writhe together uncomfortably on the floor, and Donghyuck wants to call karma, but instead, out of the pure kindness of his heart, he starts running back towards the penny-filled fountain. “Don’t die!” 

All Yuta can do is rely on upper-arm strength and try not to pity himself too harshly. 

_‘This sucks,’_ he thinks, _‘I always wanted my death to be epic. Like one of those slow-mo scenes in the 70s action movies.’_

He sigh-shouts. 

_ ‘And I’m still single.’  _

Yuta is about ready to call it quits—his biceps were killing him and he’d rather die looking somewhat pretty rather than sweaty and physically-exhausted—and he is a nanosecond away from letting the corpse drop into the flesh of his cheek before the weight atop him is suddenly relinquished. He closes his eyes, hears the ripple of a collision and a few resounding groans, and opens them up again to see Mark’s snow pale face nearly nose to nose with his own. Yuta doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see anyone else in his life. 

“Hi.”

There are no questions asked.

He reaches out a crooked hand, very familiar in fashion, but this time Yuta doesn’t hesitate when taking it. Mark is feeling extra knightly and begins to shrug and shuffle around, confusing a very wound-up Yuta who has begun to huddle in on himself. He also wanted to try something extra rom-com, as their prolonged separation had made him sappy in the most painful kind of way, but that didn’t need mentioning. He passes him his hoodie, and Yuta accepts rather quickly, ignoring any weird smell or accumulation of dirt against the fabric. He’s dusting off himself while Mark stares him down protectively, lovingly—it looks as though his eyes are about to bulge out from their sockets—when Donghyuck struts back onto the scene with two flame-ready flasks of whisky. 

He looks between the two of them frantically, the clockworks within his head visibly turning. He’s on the brink of the eureka moment of a lifetime. “Is this...?” 

Mark opens his mouth, and he speaks. It’s slow but well-practiced, the scratch of death diminishing beneath the consonants. “Want...wanted to help.”

Donghyuck nearly faints.

❦

Mark isn’t used to all the attention. 

He’s been fondled and gaped at for the better part of a half hour now, the trio having gathered themselves up to return to the center of the mall—where things were quieter. They look like off-brand _The Three Musketeers_ , if the originals were roadside junkies with a lot more battle-scars. As soon as they found a spot to regroup, Donghyuck had sat Mark down with him onto a bench and began examining every millimeter of his being. 

A bombardment of questions comes along with the physical, a wide variety of inquiries ranging from his favorite meal to his earliest childhood memory. 

Mark tells him brains and the first day of third grade, respectively. 

He was so preoccupied with the odd feeling of being a spectacle at the Smithsonian that he didn’t even notice Yuta slip out among them, quick steps sneaking into a new set of restrooms down the hall. 

As soon as he’s entered the bathroom, which was surprisingly semi-clean, Yuta hunches himself over one of the sinks and stares at his cloudy reflection. He reaches for the faucet with an ounce of optimism, and to his delight a weak spurt of water dribbles from it. Must’ve been a backup generator somewhere. He splashes his face a few times, disregarding the questionable quality, and inhales deep past his lips. 

Taking a step back, he rolls up the sleeve of Mark’s hoodie, and on the inside of his wrist is a fresh indent of teeth. It’s a big bite, ruby red and inflamed, but clean enough not to leak noticeably down his fingertips. Even still, it hurts like a bitch and it makes him slightly shake. 

He’s kind of scared. He kind of doesn’t want to die. 

Propping his arm flat against the marble countertop, Yuta slips out his belt with his free hand and ties it tight around his forearm. Then, he unsheathes Finley, angles it just above his wrist, and lifts the blade up high.

_ ‘Here goes absolutely fucking nothing.’  _

Yuta lays down the first strike in the name of Swarovski. 

Blood spatters against the foggy glass of the mirrors like a freestyle painting, and he screams through gritted teeth, a messy array of chaos and agony. His aim turns out to be terrible under immense amounts of pain, and the second hit is just as uneven as the first. Awkward scars begin to line his skin, the milky olive of his arm staining bright with shades of spurting crimson. He hacks at it unevenly until he starts to feel faint, and then proceeds to temporarily black out. 

The entire stock of jewels had better end up in his possession for the hardships he was having to endure. This one day had felt like at least three lifetimes, and Yuta was not about to finish it without some kind of luxurious reward. 

When his vision clears and he looks down, Yuta is met with the horrible observation that his blade-wielding has hardly made a dent in the muscle of his forearm, but it was almost entirely wet with red. Semi-angry with himself and his horrid sense of direction, he throws down a frustrated stroke and severs his index finger clean off the middle joint. 

This time, Yuta cries aloud, a choked off noise of panicked surprise, and he tries not to collapse under his weakening knees. Tossing Finley hastily aside, he scrambles around to stabilize his balance. He then holds his detached finger up to his face in disbelief, undoubtedly going through the onset of psychological shock, and distantly compares the appendage to a baby carrot. It was sort of funny, actually. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Yuta follows the voice to spot Donghyuck fast approaching him from the restroom’s entrance, doe-eyes impossibly wide with horror. “I-I have to cut my hand off,” he starts, frantic and frozen in place, “I got bit. I can’t turn into a zombie.”

Donghyuck visibly deflates, the look of manic concern painting his features souring into a more typical twist of annoyance. “Oh, you poor, sad, _stupid_ asshole.” He stomps right up to Yuta’s side and yanks up one of his sleeves, revealing a plethora of bite-marks arranged down the column of his arm like tattoo work. “They aren’t viral. This isn’t _The Walking Dead._ ”

Right.

“If you had told me first you’d still have your finger, schmuck!” 

_ Right.  _

The last thing Yuta hears is the sound of Donghyuck rummaging through his backpack and a snarky comment about how blondes really were dumb before he faints from blood loss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! To make up for all the uneven updates and crazily mismatched schedule of mine I present to u all this beast of a chapter...I hope it can hold everyone down for the time being<3 (What the heck is up w Yuta and fainting amirite...)
> 
> As always, any comments/questions are welcomed♡♡
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♥︎](https://open.spotify.com/track/6BQVbqCKuROQNvc5WtwiPG?si=KLw8v329QpKvokUXGgTDnw)

Being separated from the crush of a lifetime is just as painful as a mauled artery, perhaps even more so. 

The moment Mark realizes Yuta is gone, his lifeless heartstrings tangle and snap. The polluted sky falls and all the doves collapse, a heavy toxic-rain cloud dethroning all of his sunshine and sweetness. 

Why must the apocalypse be so cruel?

He doesn’t move for a moment or two, the herd beginning to spread and dissipate, and instead looks around frantically. It’s mostly due to the fact that he can’t process the situation—Yuta had taken a toll on his already depleted energy supply in the span of a few hours, and staring bewilderedly was an insistent habit that reigned over his ability to actually act. 

It’s hopeless. On the left is an empty aisle and a mall map, and down his right is the deserted path heading towards the food court. There’s no discarded Finley to lead him on the right path, and as much as he envied the thing he’d give up a limb to see its shine. There’s no trace of human blood to follow and track either. He smells death and heartbreak. 

Johnny snaps him out of the remorse-filled reverie, coming up behind him to slap an uncoordinated and very damaged hand atop his bony shoulder.He hums, as if to reassure him everything was alright, something very reminiscent of the bros before hoes mantra.

“W-want some...?” He points somewhere and Mark cranes his neck awkwardly to look behind. In his less mutilated hand is a heap of sludge, blanched and pale enough for Mark to recognize it as a piece of brain. It looks faintly parietal lobe-ish. 

There’s some comfort in knowing that Johnny has saved him a piece, no matter where he’d gotten it from, and the gesture alone reaffirms the notion in Mark’s head that this was his very best friend on the planet. 

Still, he’s not hungry.

❦

Back at the record shop, things are quiet. Not that they were usually otherwise. If anything, this was just like any other day. The end of the world was slow-paced and a little bit lonely. Sometimes food would flock in for a feast or you’d get some shrapnel stuck in your side, but at the end of the day you were mindless in the face of desolation. 

Mark copes with it by staring at the ceiling, a copy of Connie Francis on repeat. He lays on the floor of the tiny back room, the shaggy carpet cushioning his awkward position as the overhead mini-disco casts faded sparkles across the walls. 

Normally, this would be nice. Relaxing. Therapeutic, even. But as the record rolls and the disco spins, Mark can’t help but feel painstakingly lonely. It’s worse than devouring into someone who was on a greens-only diet. The meat was borderline inedible—pure blasphemy. 

He busies himself after the realization, occupied with the various knick-knacks strewn in every corner. First he begins with a Rubik’s cube, twisting at it with unsteady fingers and a tongue poked out in heavy concentration. He stops when all the reds and yellows have aligned, a little satisfied but mostly intellectually drained. Then he picks up a book, a guide, and flickers through its contents. He doesn’t dwell too long on the title— _The ABCs of Girlhood_ —for the sake of his dignity. It’s all pink and flowery, but Mark thinks there’s some real value to it, life lessons of the sort. He finds the excerpt on love and relationships and begins to read. Some words don’t fully process, and he eases the strenuous task of comprehension by focusing on the illustrations. 

** HOW TO CONFESS TO YOUR CRUSH **

_ Telling that special someone they have your heart is no easy feat—but don’t worry! We’ve got you covered. From the traditional confessional to a handmade present, these are sure-fire ways to get them falling head over heels.  _

**OPTION 1: Write a note**

You Will Need: 

  * card-stock
  * various colored pens
  * glitter
  * lipstick (to seal with a kiss) 



** WHAT YOU DO **

  1. Take out your card-stock, preferably pink or red to symbolize love, and fold it in half so that it resembles a birthday card. Write your lover’s name on the front in their favorite color. 
  2. Next, open up the card and begin your confession. Try not to be too emotional, orelse it’ll come across as desperate. Instead, keep it sweet and straightforward. Compliment them on what you fell for. 
  3. Once finished, begin to decorate the note to your heart’s content. Adorn it with copious amounts of glitter and stickers, perhaps even a few doodles to up the cute-factor. 
  4. Finally, put on your favorite lipstick to smack a smooch on your signature. Make sure to sign off with: ‘ _Love, (your name)._ ’
  5. Wait for a reply. If it doesn’t work, remember there are plenty of fish in the sea. But, if it does, live happily ever after! 



_**Tip:** If you’re too nervous about handing the note in upfront, you can sneak it in their locker at school or ask a friend to deliver it anonymously. _

Mark contemplates, thinks long and hard about what he’s just read. Then, he digs around for some pink paper. 

He’s thankful that after who-knows-how-long he’s begun to accumulate all sorts of little things, a spunky myriad ranging from decks of cards to pretty flower vases. He picks out a case of crayons and a sheet of sticky gem decals, some half-dried glitter glue and a slightly mottled envelope. Much to his dismay, there was no pink card-stock, and he was left to suffice with messily ripped out notebook paper. He tries not to dwell on it for too long, though, and instead focuses on the sentiment. That was the important part. 

The process is tangled and a little laborious, Mark’s uncoordinated hands working hard at the proper way to hold a writing utensil. It took a solid five minutes to sign his name at the bottom, paired with an extra fifteen to write the actual ‘ _I adore you_ ’ segment, but the end result is something he can be semi-proud of.

‘ _It looks like a kindergartner wrote it. Nah. Pre-school maybe._ ’ 

He doesn’t have lipstick so he draws in a mouth imprint with fuchsia crayon, and puts little stars and planets around the rest of his penmanship. There’s a cat placed next to Yuta’s name on the front because Mark thinks he acts like one, feisty and sneaky and very cute. Even Finley makes it in: a bleeding heart with a sword blade shot right through it. 

Mark holds it close, thinks about the warmth of human touch.

‘ _Where could he have gone?_ ’ 

He shoves the valentine into the back pocket of his tattered jeans, and sets out for the romantic reunion of the century. 

❦

When Mark finds Yuta, he’s red in the face and shouting. There was something poetic about showing up every time he was about to die.

_But_ , it was also incredibly stress-inducing, and Mark thought it was about time he hung up his armor and called it a day. 

They needed a moment of calm. Alone time. An ice-breaker to discuss their favorite colors and first kisses. 

(Mark hadn’t had his yet.)

The point was, Yuta was supposed to stick around for a few days, and he thought he had agreed to the offer, so it hurts more when the realization that it might’ve been a bluff poises possibility. 

Seeing the partition raised was the biggest signal, and Mark’s heart grows increasingly heavy as he realizes just how close they are to an exit door. The feeling is dark and sticky and horrible like bitter molasses, weighing him down and locking his jaw. Yuta looks so relieved when he sees him, though, and the way his blonde hair fans out like a halo against the floor is enough for Mark to push the thought aside. They hold hands and it’s warm. 

❦

Yuta wakes up on velour cushions. The ventilation is dusty and the lights are drawn low, a dim glow that makes everything eerily still. He sits up with caution, a dull throb in his right palm beginning to simmer and burn. Looking down, he can see torn fabric knotted around the stub at his knuckle. His skin is dark with blood and he really wants a cupcake. 

Not that gore made him hungry, or anything. Sweet treats were the best kind of mood-lifters. He was also very woozy and kind of delusional, so the unrealistic cravings were a given. 

There’s a sticky-note on the inside of hand. His nose itches, and when he reaches up to scratch, he’s met with a second note. The handwriting is big and scraggly, and it sparkles with the shine of pink glitter pen ink. 

_** WENT TO THE PHARMACY, BE BACK SOON!  ** _

**_ P.S.  _ **

**_ DON’T FUCKING DIE :-)  _ **

**_ -DH _ **

Yuta groans, throwing his head back and sinking himself into the sofa. It’s a familiar feeling, but his mind is clogged with cotton and he can’t quite put his finger on what anything means. Before he knocks himself into a self-induced dizzy spell, there’s the shuffling of feet and Mark’s pale face leans over into his line of vision. 

He stares at the severed skin, still raw and reeking blood, and tries not to drool. Eating his crush’s hand was not in the handbook, and seemed generally inappropriate. 

Noticing the way Mark was currently looking at him, starved and a little predatory, Yuta frowns and shifts to hide his hand. 

Then, he gets up on wobbly legs, and Mark blinks out of his cannibalistic fever dream. He immediately tries to get Yuta to settle back into the couch, holding his hands up in precaution. Yuta ignores this with an amused look, shooing him back as he teeters his way over to the stacks of music piled atop the floor. They needed a distraction. 

“You have so many of these. Couldn’t figure out how to work an iPod, huh?” He looks over his shoulder with a coy smile. His voice is gentle, slurring around as if he were doped up on anesthetic. Mark watches intently. 

“Bet...better sound.” 

Yuta laughs, full and genuine, turning back to flick through more genres. He bites down on his smiling lips, silently musing over the enigma five feet from his side. “Oh, you’re a purist then,” he teases with a voice full of vanilla. 

“More...m-more,” Mark pauses, “alive.” 

“A lot more trouble, too.” 

Yuta quips. Mark shrugs. 

“There you go again, shrugging! Stop shrugging, shrug-er.” Mark’s shoulders begin to rise and hunch over right on cue, but Yuta catches him with a testing glare and a raised brow, so they relax again almost immediately. “That’s what I thought.” He sounds satisfied, a little pompous. 

Mark feels comfortably content, and scoots an inch closer. He looks at the back of Yuta’s frame and resists the urge to comb through the ends of his hair. “You have some _really_ cool records. A little specific, though. How’d you pick which to keep?” 

“I...co-collect. Things.”

“Yup, I can see that.” Yuta pulls back from the pile he’d been observing with a record in tow, something Mark can’t quite spot the title of. “You, my friend, are a hoarder.”

That didn’t sound too good. But Yuta says it lightheartedly and with a candied sort of fondness, instantly turning it into the best thing Mark has ever been called. He swoons. 

‘ _We’re already onto pet-names. This is awesome._ ’ 

Yuta stands again, still very much unsteady, but Mark is on high alert and ready to brace any falls. He manages the short distance over towards the record player, and slides out the vinyl disc to begin to fiddling with its controls. 

“There was this underground antique shop back where I used to live. You would love it.” Mark can hear the smile in his voice, see the distant twinkle in his eyes. It’s nice. He craves more. “Everything is so mystic, you feel bewitched. And the owner always serves out tea if you’re there long enough. It’s so cool—“

Yuta slows himself, the cloud of nostalgia dissipating into little wisps. “It _was_ so cool.” 

Before the moment spoils into something bittersweet, the record crackles to life and Aretha Franklin’s voice fills the cozily cramped room. 

The swanky piano and the angel smooth acoustic of a plucked guitar, Yuta’s cheek-scarred face adorned with a beautiful smile. Mark can’t move when he starts to sing. 

“ _The moment I wake up,_ ” there’s a pep in his step now, he moves with the music, “ _before I put on my makeup..._ ”

He entices Mark with silly dancing, circling around his stick-stiff figure and barely avoiding multiple trips over his own feet. 

“ _I say a little prayer for you,_ ” he points at Mark, dramatic and playfully wanton. His mouth is still sweet and smiling but there’s some tiger in his eyes.

This little game continues for a few more verses, Yuta bouncing around way too much for it to be considered safe, but then he grabs Mark’s clammy hands at the chorus and begins to drag him along for the ride. It’s hot against cold, molasses turning into sugar. 

Then it hits him—and it crashes down hard. 

‘ _It’s a love song._ ’ 

Mark can see the confetti now, the cheering crowds and popping champaign, a very satisfactory celebration of you-just-made-it-to-the-next-base. He smiles crookedly and Yuta laughs again and again, pressing his forehead into the junction between his neck and shoulder. 

They sway and twirl, a very odd and disjointed mess that fails to adhere to the genre of the song, but ignorance was indeed bliss. Yuta links their hands and tries to recreate a wave, then moves to teaching the robot, and then the tango. He encourages him through schoolboy jokes and offhand teasing, the occasional too-long touch joining the mix. Mark follows his lead and mirrors each move accordingly, lifting his arm up high to spin Yuta before he’s ushered to do the same. His cheekbones feel stiff with the way he’s been grinning. 

The song slows and Yuta does too, flopping himself down exhaustedly back onto the sofa. His fingers are still locked with Mark’s, hence he comes toppling down with him. He hums along to the fading notes, a starlit melody, and turns his head to meet an expectant Mark. The undead aspect has gotten significantly less revolting. His nose scrunches up with his smile, all teeth and sunshine. “Answer my prayer,” he sings through a whisper, as if they were going to caught. It’s silk smooth and beginning to lilt with laughter, and Mark isn’t sure if he’s imagining it when Yuta squeezes his hand tighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sappier chapter to commemorate belated Valentine’s Day...<3 Is that love or entrails in the air?
> 
> ✧ [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/diorpocketknife) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yes2heaven) ✧


End file.
